


(winter)

by firepixel



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Other, Vague, as in: very vague, fic fragment, interpret as you shall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:19:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8489386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firepixel/pseuds/firepixel
Summary: "If you were writing a story about us, how would you begin?" 
He looks up at you from where he's perched on the washing machine, glasses glinting as he slurps up another strand of ramen. "Like you are continuing a conversation with the reader that they don't remember having," he replies eventually, sounding as serious as anything. "Like they're the main character in a story they aren't writing."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jetfeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jetfeather/gifts).



> this is an outtake from a fic i was trying to write. eventually, it may become a whole fic. tell me if you think that would be worth it. sorry for mess. thank you, as always, for reading <3

"If you were writing a story about us, how would you begin?"

He looks up at you from where he's perched on the washing machine, glasses glinting as he slurps up another strand of ramen. "Like you are continuing a conversation with the reader that they don't remember having," he replies eventually, sounding as serious as anything. "Like they're the main character in a story they aren't writing."

It's sage advice. Coming from an imaginary friend it's almost transcendentally wise, but it doesn't sound much like what Seven _should_ sound like so you imagine he never said anything at all. The cursor blinks, taunting. The Seven on your washing machine slurps the rest of his noodles down to the rhythm of its appearance and disappearance. When he puts his bowl in the sink, it echoes the thump of your forehead on the now-closed laptop. He fades out, into the darkness of the apartment where you never bother paying the electricity bill anymore.

He offered to pay it, once. _Seven would never offer to pay._ Seven would, perhaps, admittedly, maybe offer to pay it. You don't know how to characterize his memory so you conclude that even if you let him, the financial contribution of a figment of your imagination is probably negligible. This thought leads you to sigh against the still-warm surface of the laptop, where your cheek is still pressed into the cat sticker you tacked on after he bought you an entire sheet. Those stickers are everywhere, just like your memories, and they're equally difficult to peel off without leaving a mark.

xxx

He almost never interacts with you more than once a day, so it's a minor miracle that he's here - his shape above you, a vaguely looming presence in the ever-present gloom. The only light is from the screen of your phone and whatever of the moon that filters through the gap in your curtains. He moves against you and you move against your beliefs, with a tad more emphasis on _against_ , tipping your head back to give access but also to swallow down something that tastes suspiciously like guilt. You don't know how consent in fictional situations works and you aren't sure a figment of your imagination is even capable of autonomy and that's too self-contradictory and everything is complicated until he bites down on your shoulder and you bite down the self-loathing. Then it's no less complicated but at least it's distantly so. You set aside the tangle of your ethics on the same mental table that holds mathematics homework from years back, and focus on the present.

It's somewhere along his nails digging into your lower back that you notice his shudders are actually sobs, that your collarbones are wet, that he's actually _crying_. You don't know how to deal with that, you've never known how to deal with Seven crying on a good day, you - you listen closely, as his whispers finally surface to be louder than your thoughts. He's chanting the same thing over and over, seemingly to himself, until he looks up at you and you somehow make eye contact. The dark doesn't prevent you from seeing the glow of the tear tracks down his face when he repeats himself, almost desperate -

"I'm real." (Im real Im real im real imreal _imrealimrealimreal_ )

xxx

In the morning you're standing in the kitchen alone. There is a cup of tea on the table, still warm despite the chill air. You feel light. There is a lot of light around you, actually, echoing a weird kind of emptiness that seems more than physical. The latter is easily explained by the sheer amount of crying and throwing up you did the night before, but the light - the light is new. You don't even remember how long ago it was that you've been here with the curtains drawn all the way open.

The rosebushes are long since dead, snowed over a winter ago, and you can vaguely tell their outline under the fresh coat of snow. It smells crisp and cold and wet when the wind blows across it into your window. You haven't actually gotten to touch it, red roses you have never known how to maintain wilting from neglect ever since that first bouquet you've cut with a pocket knife. Your hands were trembling, you recall. You nicked your finger on the blade from how unsteady your hands were, and for the shortest moment, for the smallest space between breaths, expected someone to be there to kiss it better.

The shock of red hair never came. No gentle hand cupped your palm and no lips brushed a kiss to the index finger. Instead you licked off the blood, immediately regretting the decision, and fought through a new wave of nausea to twist together the length of twine around the spiky stems. The trek down the hill was almost easy, almost cathartic in itself, until you found yourself on your knees with the bouquet on the ground in front of you and a choked whisper on your lips.

You don't know why you brought roses to a funeral. But it's the only flower that ever reminded you of him.


	2. another memory

It's seemingly a repeat of the night before, at first. Until your perspective shifts, and - it's a _memory_ , you're looking at a _memory_ , this is an honest-to-Elizabeth _recollection_ of something that feels painfully familiar - your breath catches as you're struck with the sudden compulsion to capture the moment in type. There's Seven; there's you. There's the curtains, there's the scratch of the pillowcase tag against your upper back. There's his hip in your hand and his fingers in your hair and his breath on your cheek. There's your voice, screaming, a long and drawn-out shriek. It echoed in your ears back then the the way it doesn't now, swallowed up by the darkness and the silence of introspection. _Notrealyouarentfuckingrealgetawayfrommeisweartogodsevenicanthandlemyselfrightnowpleaseleaveyouarentrealyouarentrealyouarentreal **please**_ -  
so many words, running into one another, tears running down your face unbidden. You'd backed yourself against the corner in the bathroom, cold tile pressing against your back through the thin cotton of your shirt. Your hands were up, as if to ward him off - him, kneeling on the floor in front of you looking almost as frantic and lost as you felt. It took a while for you to notice his lips moving back then, too, and even longer to recognize in his voice an echo of yourself.  
 _It'sokaybabyitllbeokaylookatmejustlookatmeimrighthereforyouimrealiswearimrealbabyitwillbeokayipromiseitllbeokayimrealimrealimrealbaby **please**_ -

there was a bottle of pills on the kitchen counter the next afternoon. A note of hesitation in his voice, an extra beat missing in the melody that was him cuddling into you at night and wrapping an arm around your middle.

The pills made you feel like shit, his cautious reminders to take them made you feel like shit, you snapping at him to just leave you alone and let you take your own damn meds made you feel like shit. The bottle ended up upturned into the rosebush, tablets mixing in with the freshly planted soil. He didn't dare ask again as long as there were still stiches in his cheek from where you flung the kitchen knife at him. It was completely unintentional, you said over and over, his face cradled in both your hands and his blood staining the fingers of your right.

The roses died, in the end.


	3. Chapter 3

The doctor's office is just as you remember. The walls are a shade of warm cream, as gently off-white as you are gently off-kilter. The couch is a much darker shade of cream. You pick at the tassels on the expensive-looking braided pillow on your lap while your parents talk, looking around the room absently. The doctor keeps his blinds wide open all the time, and the light that floods the office reflects off his pale pink hair and customary ivory suit in a way that is almost blinding. You blink against the glow, tuning back into the conversation.

"It happened again last night, Doctor, I don't know if we can..." your mother pauses uncomfortably, trailing off as the doctor picks up for her.

"Of course, it would be best if it could be arranged, but I fear for the psychological effect of forcing a separation from the house right now. Throwing in new variables before we have a chance to see the effects of the new course of medication might potentially offset the progress we made this past year." He explains, calmly, his hands folded in front of him. From where you're sitting, it sounds like complete pseudo-scientific bullshit of the kind a beginner fanfiction writer might spout, but your parents nod in agreement. You scowl and turn back to the window.

There's a new pot on the windowsill, which you are surprised to not have noticed before. The petals of the bluebells almost glow in the light with how translucent they are, and for a moment you can't tear your eyes away. Your eyes water slightly as you cough, a strange itch in your throat. The flowers seem familiar. Your parents pause the conversation to look over at you when you cough. When you raise your eyebrows at them they turn back to continue discussing the new dosage of your medication, and you're suddenly impatient in a way that has a lot to do with the light and the unpronounceable names smooth in the almost-smug voice of the doctor and the sudden desire to see Seven, the recollection that - Seven, he's right outside, waiting for you, worried for you, oh god, _Seven_ -

(Your last medication left you stumbling into walls and nodding off at the strangest of times. He said it would get better. _He said it would get better._ The bruise on your hip hasn't healed yet and he said it would get better and gave you another bottle, two times a day, after food that you can't stomach. It didn't get better.)

"Can we leave now? Seven's probably sick with worry outside," you say, stretching your legs out in front of you and staring at your knees petulantly. When you look up, it's to a sigh from your mother.

"Sweetie..." she begins, just to be interrupted by the doctor. His tone is smooth and measured, as it always is.

"It's alright. Everyone grieves in their own way, and I am sure that with the new course she should be better in the span of a month." He flashes what is probably a reassuring smile at your parents. From your angle, it looks more like a jeer, especially when his eyes flicker over to you. You look away, and let the conversation drop into an awkward silence until your mother makes an uncomfortable smile of her own and shifts her bag into the crook of her elbow, ready to leave. You stand up, closing your eyes against the sudden rush of vertigo, vaguely making out the doctor's reminder for a reminder for you to actually take your new set of pills.

"Thank you, Dr Choi. We'll make sure she takes them." Your mother looks over to where you've hung back, sounding mildly defeated. She calls out to you.

"Time to go, Rika."

**Author's Note:**

> i read and appreciate every single comment. thank you so, so much for giving me your warm words in return for my empty bullshit ones. i am trying to write something but i have too many pieces and the puzzle i am aiming for seems too big. i know it's hard to judge a face by its eyelashes alone, but please tell me if you would like more of whatever tf that just was. <3


End file.
